Not Yet Time to Say Goodbye
by smalltowngirlinawholockworld
Summary: Four months after the fall John returns to the flat to begin to sort through Sherlock's belongings and clean up the flat. He believes that Sherlock is alive but no one believes him, and then he finds the clue that may just prove everyone else wrong.


The flat still contained all his belongings. All his equipment, his books, his clothes, his skull, his computer with the homepage still his website, and even the tea cups he left on the table, everything that reminded John of him. John didn't want to go back, he couldn't make himself walk through that door for the past four months. He still paid the rent so as to keep the flat, but he couldn't get himself to make his way to Baker street. He was told on numerous occasions he had to clean out the flat, it was time, but John didn't want to look at his flatmate's belongings. He didn't want to have to pack them away, and never see them again. Even though he wouldn't enter the flat, John took comfort in knowing that their belongings were still there, untouched, right where they were left, before that day, four months earlier. John had told his friends that he wouldn't pack away the belongings of his flatmate because he would be too upset, and he was, yet he refused to take their help when offered because , in truth, he wanted everything to be there when his flatmate came back. Another miracle and they'd be reunited. He just had to pull another miracle like John knew his flatmate could and everything would go back to normal. They'd be together on Baker street again, doing what they do best. But it had been four months, and everyone had told John his flatmate was dead, he watched him jump, but John believed in him, he believed in his miracles.

John had looked for any signs that he was alive, that he wasn't really dead, but there was nothing. John visited his grave as often as he could, even sleeping there some nights, hoping to find him standing there, with that annoying yet brilliant smile, but he never showed up. It had been all over the papers and the news: Fraud Turns to Suicide- but John wouldn't believe it. There were too many holes, things that didn't make sense to him, and he had tried to figure them out, but he simply couldn't. He tried to think like him, but that proved to be difficult, and made John far too upset. He had gone back to his therapist, and tried to retrace his steps, have someone to think things through with, to bounce theories back and forth with, but it mostly ended up with John talking about how brilliant his flatmate was and how he knew he'd pull off some sort of miracle and come back, but in the end it was always John hopelessly dreaming.

There was a day though, when things changed drastically for John. He had gone to his therapist for his appointment like usual, when a black car pulled up next to him as he limped down the road, his psychosomatic limp had come back. John knew what it meant, it was always the same thing. He stepped into the car, not knowing his destination, but he knew who he was meeting, it was always the same man. John pictured him. He was tall and was always dressed nicely, occupied a minor position in the British government, although others would argue his position wasn't so minor. He had gotten to know this man quite well after meeting with him on several occasions. John was lost in his thoughts when he realized the car had stopped. He thanked the driver and stepped out. John stumbled backwards when he realized he knew where he was. The color drained from his face and he felt sick.

The front door opened and there was the man. It was his flatmate's older brother. Just who he was expecting. "Hello John," the man said, standing in the door way.

John looked at the man, clearly upset, "Why? Why here? Wha- what do you want now? Please just anywhere but here, please. Mycroft please, why here?"

Mycroft looked at John and exhaled slowly. A look of grief settled across his face. "John, listen to me. You can't hide from this forever, and neither can I. I've brought you here because you've waited long enough. I think my brother would have preferred you clear out his belongings instead of me. You've got to do this John, and you've got to move on. He's not coming back, he's- John just, do this and you have to stop telling everyone he's alive. He's dead. He has been for four months. He's not coming back."

John looked at Mycroft, tears welling up in his eyes. John knew that Mycroft was at least partially right, but he knew Mycroft's brother better than Mycroft claimed to. John stared at Mycroft and they stood there in silence for several moments, when John sighed and looked at the door. 221b. John looked at the number on the door for a moment, and he felt a tear running down his cheek. He didn't even bother to wipe it away and he turned his back to Mycroft and sat on the curb. he hunched his back over and began to cry.

Mycroft walked down the steps and sat next to John on the curb. He didn't say anything. They only sat there. For about twenty minutes, John was bawling, and he didn't care who saw him or heard him, he was only thinking about his flatmate. Finally, he collected himself and looked over at Mycroft. He couldn't see properly, his eyes were puffy, but he saw Mycroft, a man who seldom shows emotion, with tears quietly rolling down his cheeks as well. Mycroft quickly wiped them away and straightened himself up. "Alright, John. You've got to go up there and do what you need to do. If you need anything, you can call me."

Mycroft stood and helped John up. They shook hands. As Mycroft began to turn and leave, John faced the flat. "Mycroft," he called out. Mycroft turned and looked back at John. "Do you believe?"

Mycroft halted. "Believe? Do I believe in what?"

John turned to look at Mycroft. "Do you believe in your brother?"

Mycroft opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it. He looked at John, unsure of what to say. Thoughts raced through his head, thinking of what he believed to be true and what he believed to be false, yet now, when asked if he believed in his brother, if he believed he wasn't a fraud, Mycroft couldn't tell the difference between real and false anymore. Mycroft turned his head and looked at the sidewalk. John watched him, waiting for an answer.

"Yes. Yes I do, John. I believe in my brother. I believe in Sherlock Holmes ," and Mycroft turned and walked down the street. John watched Mycroft until he turned the corner and then he looked back at the flat. 221b. The flat he shared with his best friend, of course he had never admitted it before that they were such good friends, maybe Sherlock wouldn't say so either. But they were best friends, he had saved John, in a way. John had been so lonely and isolated, invalided from Afghanistan, and then he met Sherlock, and everything changed. They became good friends and took cases together. They had become very close, and John thought things were going well, but then Sherlock jumped.

John never forgot that moment. Whenever he closed his eyes he saw Sherlock falling and hitting the sidewalk. He shuddered at the memory, trying to make himself forget, but the harder he tried to forget, the more prominent it became in his head.

John thought of Sherlock often. He thought of moments they shared, and events that brought them close to death, but Sherlock always seemed to get them out of it. There was a distinct memory John had, of Sherlock wearing a bonnet. They had been on a case and were in need of a disguise in order to avoid the news reporters and the only hat Sherlock could find, was a bonnet. Sherlock had taken it, rather reluctantly while John stood there laughing. "Oh bugger off John. It's necessary. In this line of work, when you can't manage a decent disguise, take the closest thing to it."

He put on the bonnet and looked absolutely ridiculous. John couldn't stop laughing. "Oh for God's sake John what is so funny about a man in a bonnet?"

John was about to answer but was interrupted by his laughter. Sherlock broke into a grin and started laughing along with John. That was something John loved about Sherlock. He knew when he was being ridiculous and even though Anderson and Donovan and so many other people called him a machine or a freak, he was so human, and he accepted it. John sighed, thinking fondly of Sherlock, and he made his way to the door.

The flat was a nice flat. The stairs leading to it were a bit old as was the wallpaper, but it still looked very nice, even antique. The stairs were quite narrow and were made of wood, twelve steps that creaked when stepped upon. There were a few pictures hanging on the walls, but they were never really thought of. The flat itself was a mess. There were things everywhere. Books of all sorts in all languages were scattered about. The furniture was aged as well. There were a few tables and armchairs around the flat which were always covered in books or science stuff. The wall above the fireplace was scarcely visible. It's where Sherlock always hung information about the case they were working on; pictures, evidence, notes, everything. Sherlock's room was a mess as well, he never really bothered to clean, wasn't really his area of expertise, so he left it as it was. John's room was neat and tidy, everything was in its proper place.

John walked up the steps, creaking as he forced himself up the stairs. He slowly but surely made his way to the door which was still left slightly open, just enough that John could peer inside and see the flat clearly. John exhaled deeply and pushed the door open. As soon as the door swung away, exposing the rest of that front room, John felt like he hit a brick wall of emotions that he had been bottling up. He felt so many things at once; anger, confusion, sadness, lost, empty, alone. Everything in that flat reminded John of Sherlock, even his own belongings. John walked into the middle of the room, examining everything, checking to see if anything might have been moved since he was there last, but he saw nothing different. John sat down in his own armchair and felt like he was home at last, but he didn't want to stay. He closed his eyes, imagining Sherlock standing next to the window, playing the violin, while John would blog, back when things were normal. It began to feel so real that John stood up and began to almost dance around the room. He could hear the melody Sherlock played, moving in time with the beat going faster when it picked up, and slowing down when the pace slowed. John was turning and dancing and laughing, and Sherlock would be laughing too, not joining in but making comments about John's lack of rhythm, and John felt happy. He hadn't been happy in four months, but now he felt happy, like nothing was wrong, when he heard something crack beneath his shoes.

The music stopped when John opened his eyes. He picked up his foot and saw a watch on the floor. He recognized it immediately. The watch was one of Sherlock's many broken watches. The band was torn badly, the leather falling off. The watch was stopped at three o'clock and now the face was broken as well. It was an old watch. John was surprised to know that Sherlock still had it. John had given it to Sherlock as a friendly gift when they first moved into the flat, but that was so long ago. Sherlock's reaction to the gift was more than what John had expected. Sherlock thanked him and that was that. John hadn't even expected a thank you, maybe just a nod, but he got a reply and was kind of shocked after hearing what he had heard about Sherlock. John wasn't sure how to react, seeing this watch again. Sherlock wore it now and then back when it still worked, and then he went out and got a new one when this one stopped working. Usually Sherlock would have just thrown a broken watch out, but apparently this one meant something to Sherlock.

John picked up the watch, little bits of glass falling and hitting the ground, making little to no noise as they bounced on the wood. He examined the watch, turning it this way and that, not really believing that he was holding it, that it was still there. John didn't really believe any of Sherlock's possessions were really there either, it seemed only like a dream. John half expected his hands to fall through boxes and bookshelves when he touched them, thinking they were figments of his imagination, and John found himself having difficulty believing that Sherlock was dead, now that he was back in their flat. "Don't do this to me Sherlock," John whispered to the empty flat. "Please. Stop this. Just stop being dead, Sherlock. Please."

John collected himself again and looked around the flat, unsure of where to start, when his eyes landed on Sherlock's room. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, figuring it might be easiest to start with his room.

John had only been in Sherlock's room once before, the first time being the day Sherlock died. He wasn't sure why he went into Sherlock's room, he wasn't thinking very clearly. John had stood in the doorway, looking in at Sherlock's messy room, at all his belongings that were scattered around the floor, and he broke down. John slept in Sherlock's room that night. He couldn't remember going into Sherlock's room the night before when he woke up, but he stayed in there all day. He sat on the bed with a blank expression on his face. John hadn't really put much thought into what he was doing when he eventually got up. He began to look through Sherlock's things, trying to find any clues that he had been dreaming and Sherlock was playing a joke on him, but the morning paper proved him wrong.

When John had gone through Sherlock's things, he came across a black and white photograph of a boy who was most definitely Sherlock as a young boy, there was no mistaking it. It was all in the cheekbones, incredibly sharp, and the ears were practically identical. It must have been from his school days, but John wasn't sure as to why Sherlock had kept it. Maybe it was special to him, sentimental and all that, but from what John had pieced together of Sherlock's childhood, which wasn't much, Sherlock wanted nothing to do with it. Even though John felt so empty and alone that day, even more so now, the photograph made him smile. Seeing Sherlock as a child isn't something John ever thought he would see, and he was shocked to see it. John kept the photograph with him, and it could still make him smile, and surprise him just a little.

For the past four months that photograph was the only thing that could actually make John smile. Although it made him incredibly sad when he began to think about the picture or of Sherlock, the photograph could make him happy even for just a little bit. John thought that maybe Sherlock had left it somewhere John would find it, knowing that it would make John laugh every now and then, but John dismissed the idea, thinking it ridiculous that Sherlock would think that way.

John found himself standing in the doorway of Sherlock's room, looking in at the mess that Sherlock actually used to live in. "You ridiculous slob," John whispered into the room, cracking a smile. He looked around the room, unsure of where to begin. There were clothes piled around the floor and on the bed, some of them looking like they made letters or obscure symbols, obviously Sherlock was unaware of how closets and drawers work seeing as all his drawers and closet held no clothes, that was the floor's job. Little artifacts and belongings were everywhere, ranging in size, color, place of origin, etc. and they all fit in neat piles around the room forming shapes and such. Nothing seemed to really stand out in the room, they all seemed like collectible knick knacks that Sherlock came across throughout his life. Some looked older, some newer, some he probably found as a child, some he probably found from investigations.

John looked around, noticing things that he was quite surprised Sherlock owned. He saw bits of sea glass sitting on his dresser. Little shards no larger than John's pointer finger. "Why in the world would you have sea glass on your dresser?" John whispered. He walked over and picked up several of the shards and was immediately struck with grief. They were from one of the five investigations he and Sherlock had to do because of Moriarty, one of them they had to investigate river side and Sherlock must have picked up the shards and taken them with him. Why he would do that, John had no idea, but he stood there for a moment, thinking about those days Moriarty had had them dancing, doing what he wanted them to do. John quickly grew angry and hurled the glass on to the wooden floor, scratching it a bit. He shouted in frustration, angry that Sherlock wasn't there and that he was alone again.

John walked over to Sherlock's bed and sat down, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "Sherlock," he whispered. "Where are you? You can't really be dead, I know you're not. Please Sherlock, stop this, come back." John took a deep breath and picked up his head. He didn't bother to continue looking through Sherlock's things, it wouldn't do any good.

As John sat there, only looking around the room, he began to recall memories of him and Sherlock, working together on cases, that were linked with the things he saw. On his bed side table were Sherlock's glasses. They were extremely small and could only fit in his nose and he looked ridiculous in them, but he insisted they were useful when observing. He didn't wear them often, usually only when he was working with a microscope that had very low power. And very often he would throw them to the floor out of frustration or triumph.

And there on the floor next to his bed was Sherlock's old belt. It was broken badly, well beyond use. The only reason Sherlock kept it, to John's knowledge, was for when he couldn't find the riding crop. John laughed a bit, thinking of Sherlock running around frantically trying to find his riding crop and pouting when he couldn't so he took the belt along instead. According to Sherlock it worked just as well as the riding crop, but it didn't feel the same, he preferred beating corpses without the belt.

John smiled for a moment, thinking of Sherlock, and he stood up. He couldn't go through Sherlock's things now, not yet. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and pulled out his keys. He studied them for a moment and looked at the key chain he had. It was a little plastic guitar which he'd had since he was young. He kept it because it reminded him of his childhood, even though it wasn't the best, he liked looking back on it and remembering the good things. He walked out of Sherlock's room and closed the door behind him.

He walked into the living room and looked at the mess still there. Unsure of where to start, John decided to sit in his chair, opposite that of Sherlock's. He sighed, trying not to get emotional again, Sherlock had said once that caring is not an advantage, but he couldn't help it. He began to cry, only a bit, and slowly drifted into a calm sleep.

John's dreams were very often the same. Usually they were of his days in the army, and sometimes they were of things that he and Sherlock had encountered, but it was all the same. He woke with a start, his breath fast paced, unsure of what he had dreamt. John looked at the table next to his chair and saw a fresh cup of tea sitting there. Sighing, he picked it up and began to drink it. He quickly spit it back into the cup and shouted downstairs, "Thank you Mrs. Hudson, but I don't take sugar." He placed the cup back on the table and slumped back in the chair. John thought more of Sherlock and how he must be alive, he had to be. He went over everything in his head, trying to piece things together, when all of a sudden, something made sense. John jumped out of his chair and grabbed his moblie. He dialed Mycroft's number and as soon as he answered John called in to the phone, "Mycroft get over here now! You need to see this. I've got proof, I've finally got it!"

"John, what are you talking- no. This had better not be something about Sherlock being alive, he's dead, John. Please accept that, he's not coming back."

'You're wrong Mycroft. He's alive. That arse left me a note of some sort and he's definitely alive."

"A note? What does it say?"

"I don't know, I've yet to read it. It's on the floor of his bedroom."

John hung up and phoned Lestrade as well. "Lestrade, get down to the flat now."

"John what happened, is something wrong?"

"Just get down here, now. But leave Anderson and Donovan, just come by yourself. Hurry."

He hung up and ran into the closet and grabbed a stepping stool. He brought it into Sherlock's room and looked around. He was about to be one step further in finding Sherlock. It took him long enough, but he was going to find him. John looked around the room and laughed. All the random objects that were sitting around the room, things scattered around the floor that Sherlock wouldn't own. A tennis ball sat in one of the piles. Neither Sherlock nor John played tennis and it had no reason to be there, unless Sherlock put it there on purpose. And sitting on the dresser next to where the sea glass was, was a scallop shell, just sitting there, like the period at the end of a sentence. And sitting on top of one of his shoes was a child's bracelet made of beads. John knew that these weren't items Sherlock would own on accident, he had them there for a reason, and there was a reason why they were all placed in a certain area, why all the piles around the room seemed to form shapes.

John stepped on to the stepping stool so as to get an aerial view of the room. How had he not realized before? It was a message left by Sherlock and he hadn't realized it. He stood atop the stool and looked down at the floor beneath him. The piles now formed letters and words and a sentence. _John, you thought I was dead too, how cute, you're so boring _it read. John's breath caught in his throat, unable to breathe or make sound come out.

"I was expecting you to get it sooner, of course considering you haven't been here in four months and you are still quite struck with grief, you actually managed it faster than you should have. Well done John,"

John stepped off the stepping stool, not looking behind him, but he knew the voice. John turned around slowly. He knew who was behind him. John couldn't breathe properly, and suddenly his vision became blurry. He turned fully to face the man behind him. There standing was he. It was him. It was Jim Moriarty.

"You," John growled.

"Pleased to see me? I thought you might be. I've missed you, you know, don't think that just because you're the sidekick doesn't mean I don't like you too. Of course Sherlock misses you SO much. He keeps thinking you'll come and get him. He thinks you saw him survive that fall, doesn't know I arranged for that biker to distract you so you'd miss it. He didn't know that that Molly was actually on my side and told me about his little plan. He doesn't know you've thought he was dead for four months. Isn't that fun? Weak little Sherlock waiting for his John to come and save him. He's starting to give up on you, he's starting to think you don't care and soon he'll really be dead."

John stared at this man dead in the eyes. "If you kill him, I will end you. I've killed men before and I will take pleasure in adding you to that list." He was so full of anger and hatred and was ready to explode. He slowly reached into his jacket, Moriarty watching him, and gripped his gun.

"Tsk tsk tsk, you shouldn't do that. See, I won't be the one killing Sherlock, you will. But we'll explore that later when you're not unconscious. See, I've drugged you with that coffee. And you're going to collapse soon and I will laugh and you will be unconscious and when you're friends come, they're just going to think you've turned into an alcoholic. games are fun, aren't they John? Of course, I could take you to your Sherlock, but then you'd have to watch him die."

John could feel himself becoming weaker. His heart was racing and his vision was very blurry. He fell to one knee and put his hand on the floor to support him. John looked up to see Moriarty standing over him, looking pleased. "I hate you," John grumbled.

"Oh that's not very nice, now is it?"

John could tell he was ready to pass out and it was going to be very soon. "Take me- take me- take me to-" he panted.

"Take you where John? Where would you like to go?"

John collapsed, unable to support his weight any longer. He could hear Moriarty laughing and although he couldn't see Moriarty's face, he knew he was smirking at him as he tried to prop himself up. With great effort John lifted his head and knew that he was going to black out in several moments. His mouth was dry and he had difficulty forming the words but finally he managed to say, before blacking out at his feet, "take me to Sherlock you bastard."


End file.
